


King of Disaster

by preraphhobbit



Series: Queen of Peace/King of Disaster [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Masturbation, More later - Freeform, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Voyeurism, he's also a bad person, i Love to Sin, i forgot to add the Important one, im already going to hell so its okay, listen I KNOW i wrote this and should be judged harshly, nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 03:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11569422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preraphhobbit/pseuds/preraphhobbit
Summary: jon snow has a dream of fire and uncovers something he did no expect.





	King of Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> a series of jonsa-based one-shots that vaguely correspond to the queen of peace fic i'm also writing. requests are very welcome!

He keeps having the same dream of the godswood on fire. The old trees peel and crack in the fury of the flames, the humus under his feet is molten as in the tales of Old Valyria, and the world has become nothing but smoke and darkness. Yet somehow he moves through it unharmed, making his way through the old paths of the Starks. Not even the hair on the back of his neck is singed, and he feels no discomfort in the armour he wears- gleaming black plate, that glitters like the scales of a fish where the reflection of the fire dances on it.

The heart tree is weeping. Perhaps the smoke has made its carved eyes run, he thinks, for its trunk looks bloody even in the reflection of the pool. Its leaves have turned to flames, lifting scarred hands to the black sky. He thinks he sees something move beneath it, but that cannot be: Winterfell is in flames, and all who dwelled here have fled to the woods and the hills, except for himself. Fire, it seems, cannot hurt him.

There is something there, though, he realizes. The hunched form of a woman, covered in yards of her own flame-red hair. At his approach she rises; he sees she is naked as her nameday, but the hair falls like a cloak over her breasts and spools at her feet.

 _Kissed by fire, Jon Snow,_ he hears her say. It isn’t Sansa Stark but it has her voice, her hair, her shape, which he has imagined more than he cares to admit. The flames have reached her now. Are licking up the hard bone of her shin, the curve of her calves, her white knees. Her hands spread as though she is welcoming him.

_Are we not both kissed by fire, Jon Snow? Fire, blood, snow, ice. Look into the flames, Jon Snow. Will you not take what you see there?_

He feels a sick dizziness then, as though he is aroused by the flames and her words and- her. If they both leap into the pool then the fire can burn itself out around them and they will remain unharmed- he thinks he will grab her and carry her into the water, and kiss her there in the midst of the inferno.

Before he reaches her, an unholy scream splits the ground, and he wakes. Covered in sweat, hair clumped to his forehead, the sheets of his bed bound to his limbs, and hard as a virgin at his first laying. It is six in the morning and he will not go back to sleep.

The dream has visited him regularly since Howland Reed told him what really happened at the Tower of Joy, which makes its meaning more than a little apparent. In fact, the whole dream is rather clear to him: he is dreaming that he is a true Targaryen prince, and he is dreaming of Sansa because the godswood is where she kissed him. But that wasn’t right either. She had initiated their embrace, yes, but he had responded- damn him!- he guesses he had wanted to kiss her, which was why he had enjoyed it so much, the lemony-sweet taste of her, how light her body was in his arms when she was tense with surprise, like the body of a bird.

But- this means nothing, she had said. And what did that mean? This means nothing. This can’t go any further, he supposes, which it can’t. She had kissed him thinking he was a brother, and he hates himself for the way that this makes him feel, the way he hardens under his breeches when he imagines that Catelyn Stark’s perfectly genteel daughter had kissed him, and not as a brother. As a lover. As something more than a bastard sibling.

Are you so desperate for love, Jon Snow? He hasn’t lain with a woman since Ygritte, it is true. And she had been kissed by fire as well- but her hair was brighter than Sansa’s, and coarser, and he had loved her for that. Their love had burned hot and passionate like a match set to a twist of paper, and ultimate been ended by his vows; and, in the end, it had been his vows that killed her.

Ygritte was dead, and he was not. It was a simple equation with a simple answer. Simpler still was knowing that Eddard Stark had died for the knowledge that the queen was fucking her brother.

He was not the son of Eddard Stark. He was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. So Sansa Stark was not his sister.

In the end, none of it mattered. What mattered was that Cersei Lannister wanted Sansa Stark’s head on a stake, and that an army of the dead was marching down from the north. He had sworn to protect her, but that was impossible when they were as surrounded with enemies as they were now. He would die again for Sansa Stark, if it came down to it. He would come back and die again, as many times as it took for her to be safe.

When they were younger, and knew less of the world, she had been as distant from him as the glow of some star in the heavens, and he had understood her nearly as well. Arya, he had understood. Robb too. Even Bran and Rickon were less of an enigma to him that Sansa. Perhaps it was how similar she was to her mother, in her look as well as her manner, in the same shallow, nervous look she always gave him. As though he were common. He had thought her weak and prim, too highborn for her own good.

But the gods had brought them together in the end, and she was different, and he realized that the innocence in her he had despised was lost, and that he had loved it. He had loved the care she took embroidering pretty things, the way her creations littered the chairs of all the halls and bedchambers. Loved how careful she was with her appearance, the pride she took in herself. Loved her tenderness too, which he had once read as cowardice, that made her gentle enough to look after babes and the sick with patient, steady hands. If he believed in the seven he would have thought she was both the mother and the maiden. But the warrior too, wasn’t she? For she had been through as much as all of them, and unlike the rest of them had survived.

Even he had died, while she survived.

He dresses himself quickly in the thin morning light and decides to visit the godswood. Eddard Stark like to visit there and think, when he could, and it is quiet enough to find a little peace when one’s mind is clamouring. He will not have the risk of seeing her. She will still be asleep, or else have just awoken and be taking her breakfast before preparing to meet with those of her subjects who come to Winterfell to see her. Complainants, Ser Davos calls them, people with a problem they think a queen can solve.

Winterfell is quiet before the dawn, and night still lingers in the godswood. A mist has fallen in the trees and the air feels unusually moist- warmth, he supposes, from the hot springs. He used to swim there with Robb after a painful spar, to ease their aching muscles and bruises. He hasn’t soaked there since. There are too many memories there, their shouted insults and the deep kinship of brotherhood he had not felt with anyone else. Whether Jon was a cousin or a brother wouldn’t have mattered- Robb was his friend.

Perhaps today he will reconcile with the hot spring and sink himself back into its familiar heat. He has been absent long enough.

He makes his way through the weirwoods until he can see the heart tree’s leaves- not on fire, just as they always are- and then begins unbuttoning his surtout and teasing his boots from his feet. He is about to slide the surtout from his back when he hears something break the silence of the godswood- the sound of water being disturbed.

His hackles rise. Silently, he moves forward so the pool is in better view, where it is nearest the heart tree’s roots. The black water is corrugated with ripples. Someone is swimming.

Closer. Crouches behind the fat trunk of a weirwood and waits for the invader to show themselves. And then sees Sansa, up to her shoulders in the steaming water.

She hasn’t pinned her hair. It spreads around her like a foam of copper on the surface of the water, and when she dips under the surface she rises slick as a copper seal, pushing her hair sleekly back over her head with her hands.

His throat feels thick. He shouldn’t watch her. He should leave. But by the gods, she is so beautiful, naked as her nameday as she was in his dream but so much at peace, washing her hair and soaking her tormented body. The faintest suggestion of her breast- fuller than he imaged, than it had felt when he held her in this very godswood, with a nipple like a ripe raspberry- actually made his cock stir. You are a fool, Jon Snow. Though perhaps she might fuck you now that you’re a prince.

He doesn’t want to fuck her. He wants to unspool pleasure from her body like a thread from a tapestry, until she is unwound in his arms. Wants to kiss the places of her that were bruised by the bastards before him- Joffrey and the imp and Ramsay- kiss them fiercely enough that she forgets she was hurt. He wants to slip naked into the pool with her and learn the landscape of her body as he learned the landscape beyond the wall, her birthmarks, the spaces between her fingers, every imperfection that is perfect to him. He wants to know what noise she makes when she comes- if she was loud and bites and scratches, or if she is soft as a dove.

She coils her wet hair on her head and leans against the lip of the pool, facing him at an angle. He watches as her mouth opens gently and she exhales, and then her head tips back and to the side as her chest rises gently under the water. Her shoulders roll.

She’s touching herself.

His cock is harder than ever in his trousers, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to find his release there against his own thigh, or to meet her in the water and make her come himself. One pale arm splashes out of the water to arc over the humus, her fingers gripping hard into the ground as she pleasures herself under the water. Gods no, I can’t. He aches with want. Desperately he palms himself through his trousers to try and relieve his arousal, his breath heavy in his mouth. Leave now before you shame yourself, bastard, he thinks, and then he hears her thin cry echo through the weirwoods, an animal-like keening that sends every hair on his body to alert, and for a moment he cannot breathe. He is trembling so much he must shut his eyes and try to talk himself down, persuade himself soft again so he can leave before she climbs from the pool.

_I wish that had been my hand. I wish the fire had kissed me._


End file.
